


We May Never Know, Ourselves

by ssorrell



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Episode: s03e18 Distant Voices, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon Cardassia, Two Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-12 18:08:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13552767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssorrell/pseuds/ssorrell
Summary: Bashir keeps a vital secret all to himself, but an incident makes him realize his mind lacks discipline - something Garak is particularly eager to demonstrate to him.





	1. Chapter 1

Objectively, Garak was the first to _see it_ , the first to go rifling through Bashir’s records, with all their well-hidden but mismatched date-stamps; it was easier to elude a Federation eye than a Cardassian one.  And while the content itself was omitted, the context made it a game of deduction for a first-year student at even the lowest-ranked Prime Institute.

Garak’s  suspicious had dulled, admittedly, since he found he favored connecting with Bashir as someone with a similar background, and equally strong reservations about discussing it.  The two of them could talk and make wide, swooping inferences, and leave blanks for the other to fill in later, and it was much more comfortable than extraction, which Garak had given up on.  There was nothing inside the secret that would harm him, Garak was convinced, so he stopped digging, until his inaction threatened to hurt Bashir.  He simply would not have that.

Something of Bashir’s guard had come down, likely at the electrically-charged hands of that Lethean.  He suddenly lacked some reservation, and Garak was offended at counting himself the _last person_ onboard to know about it.

The rest of the crew had gathered at his bedside as he stirred from his coma, the other doctors and nurses gave advice and warnings, and he soaked up all the competing attention until it weakened him all over again.

Garak did not get in to visit him until later in the evening, where he immediately felt guilty for rousing him from sleep.  The attending nurse had spoken his name, and added ‘your friend’ in suffix, and Bashir rolled over and awoke with a smile Garak found both unnerving and reassuring at once.  It was so good to see him healthy, but he made a target of himself, and Garak needed to draw him back to their yet-unspoken oath of secrecy. 

The nurse remained at his shoulder, and Garak nodded politely as she conducted her work.

“Can you sit up, Doctor?” she asked, as Bashir was already leaning forward to support his weight on folded arms.  

Garak watched his thought process unfold like something narrated in an instructional manual.  There was a precise moment where Bashir registered what he was doing, and stopped, and excused himself backward again.  He hit the bracing cushion with a too-loud _tckhh,_ and directed the nurse over to adjust it for him, carefully lifting him into a sitting position, while he kept his arms at his sides, squeezing tightly enough to unsettle the hovering IV.  It was all a mess, and he was a terrible patient, and the nurse forgave him on those grounds as she went to get a new one.

When she was gone, Garak spoke.

“I am glad to see you well, Doctor,” he said.

“...Thank you.”

“Glad, and surprised.”

“Why are y--”

Garak leaned over his bedside, fiddling with the thin, prescribed blanket, and spoke in a quieter voice.

“Opting out of physical therapy _just to_ make our lunch appointment tomorrow?  I’m not sure that is wise.”

“I wasn’t hurt, physically.  Why are--” he began to repeat his question, but Garak continued distracting him, dangling a shiny new accusation in the way of each answer.

“Don’t you speak highly of Counselor Telnorri?”

“What does _he_ have to do with our lunch, Garak?  Why--”

Garak did not stop until the blanket was firmly containing Bashir’s limbs, and the question was caught in its earliest stage.

“You should _know_ not to make such a…” he considered the best Terran term carefully, " _standout_ of yourself.”

Bashir’s eyes dulled a little, as he realized, or inferred, _perhaps_ , that Garak knew something he shouldn’t have.  Their game had been going on for years, though, so he was not about to make a confession, nor a denial.  Those were equally-weighted moves, as far as Garak was concerned.  So, Bashir laid back and he breathed laboriously until the nurse returned with his medication.  This was administered through the air above his cephalic vein, and he gave no direction, just breaths.

The nurse unfastened the shoulder-panel of his gown, injected the hypo, and refastened it, while Garak smiled disarmingly, and Bashir remained quiet and reluctantly passive.  Then, she left again, and advised Garak not to keep him awake too long.  Garak struggled like this, himself, back on Cardassia, where he never had the luxury of being fussed over.  It had hardened him, and sometimes he hated it, but it came at the cost of keeping secrets; he knew the alarm in Bashir’s expression was born of the same necessity.

“I will go with you to see the counselor,” Garak suggested brightly, “and I will order our lunch for afterward.”

***

Bashir felt foolish, and blind.  His mind had been ripped open and ravaged, torn apart and cannibalized.  He had argued with himself, presented uncomfortable truths, and had taken shelter in allowing a manifestation of Garak to guide him through his insecurities, all the way down to his self-sabotaged final exam. _Garak_ of all people!

When it was all over, he had awoken in a daze, being forward with everyone around him as if they were still facets of his own personality.  That made him vulnerable in ways he did not fully realize, at first, and it made Garak’s offer of guidance the best he had received that day.  Part of him felt like he was falling for the same trick twice, in a disappointingly short frame of time, but at least this Garak was _real_ , as was his promise of protection.

The next time the nurse came by, to inform Bashir that her shift was ending and would be picked up by the secondary team, Bashir was asleep again, with Garak gently tracing his arm beneath the injection-site.  She walked away without saying anything, to them or the freshly-arriving doctor, who then allowed Bashir to sign himself out of the ward when he felt ready.

***

Bashir arrived early to the session, but Garak had arrived even earlier.  By the time Bashir came into the private meeting room the counselor had arranged for them, Garak was seated against the wall, with a catering bag tucked cleverly behind his feet, out of reach and just barely visible.  Bashir could not recall Garak leaving his bedside, but there he was, delivering on his promise of lunch, so Bashir knew he had not imagined the previous visit.  He was an irritating perfectionist, when it came to strategy; so was every Cardassian Bashir had ever met.

“May I?” Bashir asked, acknowledging the seat beside Garak.

“Please,” Garak replied with a nod.

Bashir returned this, and took hold of the chair, pulling it out for himself and sitting slowly, carefully, while Garak observed him.  

“That’s much better,” Garak said.

“Why are you doing this, Garak?” Bashir made it sound as if he was bored, although the question had taken him _hours_ to successfully voice.

“I am _simply_ looking out for a friend,” he replied.  “Much better than he is looking after himself, I might add.”

“That’s enough.”

“But Doctor, you’ve _just_ arrived.”

“I meant-- _ugh_ ,” Bashir surrendered with a huff.

Several minutes into the introspective silence, Telnorri joined them, and explained that this was meant to be a _private_ appointment.

“Of course,” said Garak, and he showed himself out, promising to keep their meals warm and sealed until Bashir was finished.

As he left, he tried to balance his poor hearing with his exceptional surveillance, and ended up overhearing a few words as he paced the corridor.  No one had stopped to question him, and only two individuals passed him at all, both of them civilians.  

Inside, Bashir and Telnorri talked in overlapping circles, with the counselor trying to get Bashir to feel more comfortable and open, while Bashir was frustrated at having been so completely _opened_ already.  Enough, even, for Garak to read into his history with ease.  He had come away from the encounter not trusting himself, and overcompensating so no one would feel the need - or have the time - to dig around any further into his motivations and memories.  

Garak did this for him, maybe at his benefit, maybe not, but the fact remained the same: Garak saw his extraordinary insistence that he was _perfectly fine_.  He knew, and he could tell anyone, he could have Bashir essentially enslaved to him with the mere implication, but he _knew_.

“You were the only one to experience this invasion, Doctor,” the counselor was saying, slowly, but Bashir adamantly disagreed.

“But for anyone to understand me, _Counselor_ , I’ve got to go through the whole thing _over_ and _over_ again.”

Garak paused, and pressed his palm to the opaque door, offering comfort despite the distance, and the fact it was locked shut.  It must have been difficult, to have such a disorganized mind, and then to have it so easily unlocked, under threat of death.  Briefly, he considered how things may have gone if he had accompanied Bashir back to the Infirmary that day to continue their discussion, if he had stood between him and the Lethean, how well his own mind would have fared.  

In any case, and even without hearing many of the words, Garak could understand why Bashir came away from the session feeling paranoid, unsure of himself, of what he had said, and whether he had been awake or under assault during each recollection he dredged up.  

The appointment did not last much longer, and Bashir declined scheduling a follow-up.  He was apologetic and Telnorri was quiet, and that was the end.

Garak caught his arm when he stepped outside again, and it took great effort for him not to retract in fear.  

“I’m sorry,” Bashir said, automatically, having already said the words a dozen times in a row.  “You weren’t exactly my _friend_ during all that, you know.  The… the induced-coma, I mean.”

In reply, Garak gaved a smile he hoped was friendly, nothing more.

“Yes, so I’ve gathered.  Although I’m sure my intentions were _good_ , if a little unclear.”

“It wasn’t _you,_ Garak!  I’m sorry,” he said again, having raised his voice unintentionally, “It was some vision of you that _I gave myself_ , that that Lethean _forced on me_ , and _all_ it did was try to keep me distracted until I would’ve died.”

“I can understand your reservations,” Garak observed, having another try at holding Bashir’s arm, and being only slightly more successful. “That would be _terrifying_ , not to have control over one’s own mind… not to see things as others define them.”

Bashir was beginning to relax until Garak’s final addition, prefaced by a warm, welcoming pause, just long enough to unnerve him all over again.

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” he asked, his brow raised and his voice cold.

“Forgive me,” Garak said, lowering his palm from Bashir’s shoulder; he had no interest in drawing out a confession, and the two of them continued to exist in mutual ignorance of facts they were _very_ aware of.  “Shall we go to lunch?”

“I’d prefer to eat somewhere public,” Bashir said, in the same icy tone.

“I didn’t mean any offense, Doctor.  I was merely trying to sympathize, I--”

“ _Please_ drop it.”

Not dropping it at all, Garak continued.

“--was subject to _intense_ mental training, myself.”

“ _Garak_ , please.  Don’t.”

“And afterward, I was left feeling so precarious, unsure of what identity I had left to myself; it was all built up in support of others, by design.”

“I… don’t know what you mean.”

With a glance over each shoulder, and a tightening grip on Bashir’s arm, Garak made a pleaful _shush_ sound.

“I know you are trying to guard something dear to you, Doctor.  And I must admit, insisting you see the counselor was more for your own appearances than actual benefit, but _I_ _can_ help you now.  I _understand_ what it is you are trying to accomplish.”

“Garak,” Bashir sighed, as the corners of his eyes reddened, “I _don’t think you do_ .  Maybe I’m _not_ ready to go back to work, but I’d just be stuck thinking about it otherwise, reliving it, and I _can’t_ do that or I might… say something very, _very_ stupid.”

Garak released his hold before Bashir thought to fight it, and they continued along the corridor side-by-side, and slowly.  Against his own advice, Bashir began reliving the experience immediately, how strongly it bound him to the memories he had of his childhood; these were few, but _profound_.  It was waking up alone in a strange, scary place, hearing repeated words but not understanding them, growing and aging at unnatural rates.  And then, at the culmination, learning he was insignificant all the while, that he was not _enough_ and never would be; no matter what alterations had been done, failure was more likely than anything.  

He shivered and crossed his arms over himself in defense, and Garak looked at him apologetically.

“I am not interested in manipulating you, Doctor,” Garak said, after a few long moments.  “And if you are to reflect back, you will find I _never_ have been.  What I may have inferred or found is not going to feature in any tribunal.  If you will have me, I would like to introduce you to some of _my_ training methods.  Perhaps you will find them more effective in regaining your self-confidence after this _horrible_ shock you’ve suffered.”

“That’s all?” Bashir asked, in a childlike voice that would have shattered Garak’s composure, had he not relied on this very training, himself.

“That is all.”

Over lunch, they shared a lighthearted chat, reinforced by the public setting, making it impossible to speak any further in code.  Not that they had managed to establish a code, but Bashir would rather not give Garak a chance at that, without first drawing more out of him.  There was every possibility he was being genuine, and Bashir was not prepared to deal with that, not so shortly after falling victim to that exact strategy in his own mind.  But that was what Garak wanted to strengthen, so while Bashir was skeptical, he did not refuse outright.

Garak's thoughts were still gathered at Bashir's soft, awed reaction when he offered his help, like a curtain he could not draw completely shut.  The resisting light was bright and uncomfortable, and Bashir was vulnerable to it - they both were - and Garak knew he had to continue delicately.  He dealt in trust and secrecy often, but this case was in a class of its own; Bashir was his _friend,_ and was suffering from his own unplanned intervention.

Their more serious conversation continued when they were alone again, later that afternoon, having finished exchanging stories and birthday gifts, and all the pleasantries that were expected of the pair in public settings.  Garak led Bashir along to a different private office, accessible through the Promenade, and only a few dozen paces from Garak's shop.  Because it was a Federation-allocated room, it felt familiar despite the fact Bashir had never been inside it, and he thanked Garak quietly for his consideration.

Bashir sat down first, in a seat Garak pulled back for him, and stared solemnly along the length of the conference table.  Garak's choice of seat started its life at the opposite end of the vast table, but he quickly scooted it along so it was close beside Bashir's, nodding inquisitively before sitting down in it.  They looked out the viewport together, following a path Garak drew through the air with his index finger.

"Depending on which species you were to ask," Garak explained, "the stars we see, just there, could be arranged into _thousands_ of patterns beneath their own different names and symbols.  And yet, if we want to travel to any of them, we would give their designation from a chart made out in Federation Standard, wouldn't we?"

"I... yes..." Bashir said softly, waiting patiently for Garak to make his point, deciding against being pedantic; the Federation did not often travel _to_ stars, but used them as guidance markers, and...

"...and you must learn to treat your memories that way, exactly the same."

Bashir blinked as he followed along mentally, eyes stalling, and trailing along the same line Garak drew.

"There are things you must not think about, either because they threaten your safety, or that of an assignment, and I want to help you to do that more effectively.  I understand that human memory does not operate the way mine does - Cardassians experience all of their memories simultaneously, but in varying magnitudes of strength - but the principle is sound, if my conduct can offer any indication."

Now it was Garak's turn to be quiet, while he considered the safest way to continue, enacting his own advice in a practical example.  He shook away momentary threats of addressing his fears of his father, of enclosed spaces, of death... these were like the stars they were viewing together, as small and insignificant as any other memory, and not to be called on without cause.  If only Bashir knew how deeply Garak was running this analogy for his benefit, although of course the goal was for Bashir _not_ to know.  It was a complicated line of thinking, but one Garak could navigate deftly, only slightly less than any other Cardassian might manage.  The point was not to possess these fears in the first place, but Garak was too far gone for _that._ The Cardassian method had its drawbacks.

After a while, he cleared his throat, encouraging Bashir to look at him.

"Our... human memories are different, yes," Bashir admitted, "but - erm - I think your method would work just fine for _me_..."

"Oh, I am so _pleased_ to hear you agree," Garak grinned.  "Now, the best thing to do is to _detach_ the memory you do not care to make public, and then _attach_ it to something less likely to occur to you on an average day.  Does that make sense?"

"Yes," said Bashir, "a little."

"Instead of drawing your line from _Sirius A_ to _B_ , you pick two dull little stars at opposing ends, and connect them.  If I were, perhaps--" Garak did not allow himself to falter, "very _seriously_ afraid of heights, I would not want that to be freely admitted or used against me, would I?  So I would make a point _not_ to think about that when in tall structures, or over loose edges, or in interrogation rooms - do you see?  I would try to attach that fear to something pleasant, which would not come up at _all_ in such a conversation."

"I _think_ I'm following you."

"I think so also, Doctor.  So whatever you want to protect - you do not need to say a _word_ of it to me - needs to _only_ surface rarely, and under the most innocuous circumstances."

"That's... there's rather a _lot_ of things that remind me of it, Garak.  It's a--"

"Not another _word,_ " Garak said, turning to face Bashir, an intensity in his eyes Bashir was unaccustomed to.

While Bashir quieted himself, he and Garak thought silently, separately, about what might not connect too obviously with one's childhood, for that was the underlying problem.  Bashir spoke around it in the same way Garak did his own, generalizing it and making it sound much happier and less dramatic than it actually was.  Garak felt thoroughly awful now, beneath the weight of the discomfort he endured privately for Bashir's benefit, to illustrate the lesson, to ensure the same thing never befell his only friend.  He fought off recurring images of Tain, which were _supposed_ to be hidden behind pages and _pages_ of memorized floral genealogy, meant to remind Garak pleasantly of Tolan and his garden, but failing for the moment.  The method was not foolproof, and failure could be self-imposed, but he persevered through the silence as long as Bashir did.

"Okay, I think I've got it."

"Very good," Garak said, because Bashir did _not_ provide the memory he had coded. " _Very_ good indeed, Doctor.  I always knew you were an intelligent man, more than I may have given you credit for, in the past."

Bashir submitted eagerly to the praise, and - for the first time - did not worry that it was being given as bait for an ulterior motive.  He had - _yes_ \- he had been _good enough_ , and Garak had _noticed_ it, and told him his feelings.  This was how relationships of this nature were _supposed_ to work, how learning was _meant_ to be conducted...

"...Naturally," said Bashir, to conclude his thoughts.  It also happened to amuse Garak.

"There's that _smugness_ I've been missing.  Now, then, Doctor - is there anything else I might be able to assist you with, this evening?"

"No, I don't think so.  I hate to think of owing _you_ any more favors."

"What are friends for?"

They sat together for some time, still staring outside, eyes flitting back and forth as they assigned the stars arbitrary connections.  Eventually, Garak felt the need to stand, but as he turned toward the door, Bashir's gaze followed him.

"Garak?" he asked, in that same small, frightened voice.

Garak turned around again, and looked down gently at his friend, considering all he had said over lunch about the invasion.  During the coma, Bashir had apparently seen himself age, and had relied on an image of Garak for even the most basic mobility.  Garak felt he was betraying that trust, by moving alone, so he sat down again and offered Bashir his arm to take hold of, whenever the impulse struck him.  It was not the type of physical therapy Bashir had opted out of, but it was necessary for Bashir's appearance and adaptation, both.  He was not ready to return to work yet, but that was _just fine_ , and no one would fault him or see him as any less for taking time to recover.  Garak had taken care to make him do something _normal_ , something he needed.  

"H..." Bashir trailed off into a deep breath, "h-how long did it... take you?  To find, I mean."

"Ah, you and I agreed not to discuss that, Doctor.  But, if it will make you feel better, it took me all the time I have known you, minus today."

"Because I was... not behaving normally, and you were suspicious."

" _Worried_.  Precisely.  Now, if you'd prefer not to say any--"

Bashir took the arm Garak offered, hauling it across his own seat's armrest and into his lap, while he used his other hand to support his forehead, crashing forward in his sudden shame.  His fingers around Garak's forearm tightened and twisted, and he did not know what else to do with himself.

"I - _hmm_ -" Bashir broke off into a sigh, not quite a sob, "I don't think I've got the hang of this after all.  I was--" another shaky breath, "--I was thinking about _you_ instead of, you know, and... that's not going to work, is it?  I see you _all the time_."

Nodding solemnly, Garak considered their options.

"If you would prefer some distance until you have had time to process this, Doctor, I would not be opposed."

"I don't know _why the hell_ we've gone from my experience with the Lethean to my... my bloody _Augmentation_."

Garak had not _wanted_ the confession, but it did not deter him in the least.  He had worked out, by now, that it was not something Bashir had done willingly to himself, and he sympathized.

"Doctor," Garak said calmly. " _You_ are connecting those memories, and I am trying to help you _stop_ doing so."

"It's because it was _perfectly safe_ , until this whole thing," Bashir answered his own question, voice growing steadily louder, " _I_ was perfectly safe."

"You are, still, and will continue to be.  Try again, Doctor, without thinking about _me,_ please.  It isn't just that you see me so often, but that you see _similarity_ in me - and you may be quite right, about that - I am hardly a suitable connection.  You have the concept, _try again_."

Bashir swallowed hard and shut his eyes, forcing the gathered teardrops to tumble down from each corner.  Helpless, Garak could only watch.

"I am not going to tell anyone about this, Doctor.  I can understand why you might be reluctant to trust me, but I--"

"I _do_ though, Garak.  I do trust you with this.  Is that a mistake?"

Garak said nothing, and allowed Bashir to continue stroking his arm, soothing himself and working backward from this emotional brink, and answering all of his questions for himself.

"Maybe it is," Bashir said, some time later.  "But it's happened, and... I don't know what else I could do."

"Are you thinking of something other than me now, Doctor?"

"No," he said, pressing his thumb more firmly into Garak's sleeve, taking in the texture of the thick, decorated wool.

“I am… not sure that’s wise,” Garak reiterated.

“No, it isn’t.  It’s very, _very_ stupid,” echoed Bashir.

The corner of Garak’s mouth worked itself into a smile, and the rest followed slowly.

“Allow me to walk you back to the Infirmary, Doctor.  Not the main ward, but your adjoining private room.  I think another night there, under observation, would do you a world of good.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parmak is written here with they/them pronouns.

As soon as news of the collapse reached him, Garak was on his way to the Medical Unit.  He had been working in the City Center, formally overturning as many criminal convictions as he saw fit, pardoning citizens both alive and dead for crimes that did not matter.

Buildings did not simply collapse, anymore, and he was suspicious immediately.  Suspicious, and inordinately angry.  Not solely with Bashir, but as he had not _found_ a guilty party yet, his feelings had nowhere else to go.  Then, upon reading a message from Parmak, he learned the incident had occurred inside his own former household, and his feelings were split between worry and irritation.

“Still,” Garak muttered to himself, as he boarded the evacuation tram, the only transport he could arrange on such short notice, “he ought to know better than to go digging around in that cellar.”

He removed his communicator from its inner pocket in his tunic, and rang for Doctor Parmak right away.  Parmak chuckled good-naturedly at the sight of the Castellan commandeering the emergency tram solely to check on his partner, but then they gave reassurances without Garak asking.

“It is not life threatening, Elim,” they said. “He is awake and would love to have a visit.”

“What on _Prime_ possessed him to do that?  Did he really think he could open that door unassisted?” Garak demanded, of no one.

The door was obstructed by hundreds of kilograms of disused valuables, and Garak was struck by an unpleasant picture of Bashir trying to get inside just because he _could_ , in fact, clear the obstacles by himself.  

Parmak adjusted down the volume, and leaned in.

“He is twenty years younger than you are, my dear.”

“And twenty years more foolish.”

“Now that,” Parmak said, with a little grin at Garak’s surroundings, “I am not so sure of, sometimes.”

Of course, it was Parmak who had dragged Bashir out of the pile of funerary rubble, which filled most of Tain’s property, to the point of blocking out the daylight.  Garak preferred it that way, and would not step inside, otherwise.  Parmak understood the trauma-induced aversions, but did not share them, so he went in and uncovered Bashir’s body from the staircase where he had fallen and become trapped.

He looked so much thinner than usual, when Garak saw him on the Unit cot.  Parmak had dressed him in a burial shroud, because they had long run out of sanitary smocks, and while they both found the result distasteful, it made them realize just how close the accident had come to being fatal.  Bashir stirred after a long delay, following Garak’s greeting, and Parmak looked on with restraint.

“He has a concussion,” Parmak explained.

Garak gritted his eyes shut, in place of shouting or otherwise reacting too strongly.  Bashir, meanwhile, nodded and finally managed to say both ‘hello’ and Garak’s given name.  

“And fracture of the patella,” Parmak went on, to ease as many of Garak’s worries as he created.  “I believe it is treatable without surgery, but I will… have to wait to ask Julian, I’m afraid, as he is the only qualified orthopaedic surgeon on the Continent… The Federation can dispatch one, but it would be several weeks until we see them.”

It was a little sting in the back of Garak’s mind, to infer they had given up on Deep Space Nine, for all appearances.  A medical officer with _enough_ training could have arrived from there in hours, if they had one to spare.  He shook his head, and when he realized Bashir’s eyes were trained on his motions, following with a slight delay, he offered his hand, and pressed his palm to Bashir’s cheek.

“What _were_ you thinking?” Garak asked.

“ _Elim_ ,” Parmak said warningly.  They pulled Garak aside, and leaned in close against his ear, “It was an accident.  He’s… not able to react the way you want him to, right now, _leave it_.  He will be better tomorrow.”

Bashir was making quiet sounds from the cot, complaining of a bad taste in his mouth and requesting water, which Parmak left at once to retrieve for him.  While standing there alone, Garak thought over the time-frame Parmak provided.

One day did not seem sufficient, for a man in this state.  Garak knew what a high premium hospital cots existed at, and he knew Parmak quietly held a romanticized fascination with Bashir's past, but _one day_ was still not enough.  He oversaw Parmak's ministrations, now, watching them clip the corner off of a water ration, then help Bashir cup his hands around it, and support himself enough to drink without spilling or wasting a single drop.  Parmak gently touched his bottom lip, too, and then wiped the residue from their finger along the inside of the packet, while Bashir looked on silently.  When this was all finished, and Parmak had made another check of Bashir's vitals, Garak cleared his throat to command attention.

Parmak stopped beside him, and spoke quietly, knowing human hearing was much better than theirs, concussion or not.

"Yes, Elim, what is it?"

" _Tomorrow_?"

"Forgive me, but I'd assumed you would agree to have him taken home with us, and kept there."

"With us... _kept there_?  That's where _he lives_."

"Elim, my dear, are upset with me?"

"I'm not sure what I am, Kelas...  I am _worried._ "

"As am I."

"Are you treating him as you would anyone else?"  Garak's heart took a slackened beat as he asked, having just witnessed how delicate and loving Parmak's attention was, "I must know, and--"

Parmak, meanwhile, was saddened for almost the opposite reason; they had narrowed their focus dramatically after bringing Bashir in for treatment, and feared they were, perhaps, overbearing and neglecting their other patients.  

"No," admitted Parmak.  "I am treating him better.  Like a _child_ , Elim, _look at him_."

"Don't say that to him, under any circumstance, do you understand?"

Swallowing hard, and straightening the creases that had formed in their lab coat, Parmak conceded.  

"I wouldn't dare to, Elim."

With that, Parmak touched Garak’s shoulder, and they returned to Bashir's bedside.  He was sitting up and beginning to blink more naturally, even when Parmak took a little medical torch from their kit and shined it over his eyes.  Garak followed after a moment, and took Bashir's hand; he had extended it immediately to the bedframe when he noticed Garak approaching.  

Garak's thumb trailed softly over Bashir's knuckles.  

"Elim," he said, in a voice strengthened only by the ration of water, "I'm sorry."

"You needn't apologize to me, my dear.  These things can happen to any of us."

Parmak made a deep noise in their throat, and Garak nodded, and simplified.

"It's all right," he said.

Bashir put great effort into smiling, and moved his hand - the one still wrapped inside Garak's - up to touch the bandage on his head.  Parmak had changed it several times, and recycled the original plaster for all it was worth before finally disposing of it.  Now, it was smeared with an antibiotic compound instead of blood and dirt.

"I... fell down the stairs," Bashir explained, slowly.  

Feigning the normalcy of it all, Garak nodded along with each staggered syllable, and kept his eyes well focused.  Oh, he knew Bashir would make a complete recovery, but it would not be any time soon.

"You did, yes."

"I should not have been down there."

"No, absolutely not."

At this point, Parmak leaned in, and offered a quiet interpretation service.  They fiddled with a folding chair as they spoke.

"He heard someone there, already, but could not make out what was being said."

"Oh?" asked Garak, accepting the seat Parmak set out for him.

Bashir looked around for a moment, and then said, "yes, that's right."

For now, the crushing similarities were all Garak's to bear.  Bashir had endured the physical harm, and Garak gladly sacrificed himself to the mental, in Bashir's place.  There were too many connecting lines, Garak could not even begin to list them.  Of course, they all surfaced simultaneously in his memory, and he was silent for nearly a minute while he tried to sort through them all, but it could not be done.  Before he even attempted supportive speech, Parmak was touching his neck, feeling for his pulse and marking its time aloud.

Both Garak and Bashir welcomed the distraction, and sought comfort in the pattern.  It was fortunate that Garak's pulse remained steady, if a bit faster than Parmak favored, even taking Garak's frequent anxiety into account.  Parmak finished at a customary figure, divisible by three, and excused themself to refresh Bashir's bandages again, leaving Garak and Bashir alone.

Still holding Bashir's hand, Garak nudged him gently onto his side, and pulled his own chair in closer, bridging the gap between their bodies.  Inquisitively, he touched Bashir's ribs, feeling for the unmistakable heat of bruised human skin through the thin, lilac funeral garb.  He did not find injuries of any note, and Parmak praised his thoroughness when they returned.

They touched Bashir's head, indicating he should turn it, and he knew this routine well enough, despite his weakness.  He obliged, and displayed the horrible wound to Garak, cut and crusted with blood around its edges, still carrying dust in the deepest indentation of the bruise, which Parmak had not yet managed to clean out because the place was too tender.  However, Bashir welcomed Garak to touch it, trusting instinctively that he would be gentle.

Garak had expected a lecture, carried simultaneously by both doctors, and in exchange for _him_ lecturing both of _them_ on being so careless.  But the truth was, neither had been careless at all.  Parmak was expressing more gentility and less stubbornness than Garak had ever seen from them, doting on Bashir on a strictly-enforced internal schedule.  And Bashir's accident had been just that: an accident.  He thought there was someone in the basement in need of help - a possibility that drove Garak to feverish nightmares on more than one occasion - and he was trying to provide for them.  There was no way Garak could lecture him for _that_.

That dreadful basement was full of _connections_ , which Garak had been purposely ignoring for several years already.  He had ensured the door was bolted shut, and barricaded with shelves of excessive weight and complement, to stop the homeless from getting inside.  It made him feel selfish and cruel, denying a warm place to sleep to those who needed it, and barring the door with more possessions than anyone else still owned, but he could not guarantee it would not collapse, and his mind _could not bear_ to have it opened.  If Bashir had done it, Garak would have found the strength to forgive him, but _only_ him, knowing both he and Parmak would be there to work through the connections with him.  Doing so alone was no good at all, and he recalled doing everything in his power to spare Bashir this exact turmoil on the station, years ago.  Quite by accident, that was the day he learned about Bashir's unfortunate childhood, and as he unraveled more details over the years, he knew they held _every_ similarity.

"You are sure there was no one inside the cellar?" Garak asked, haunted by one such vision.  It was always orphans, too, which he saw there.

Bashir blinked vacantly, glancing backward as he tried to recall.

"I didn't get in there, I--" he said, frustrated and already on the brink of tears. "I had--"

"Forgive me, Elim," Parmak interrupted, "but I went in and checked, myself.  The Council has asked for the electronic components from your bookcases, nothing more, and will be replacing the weight with whatever they can find to offer you.  I told them the precise weight was very important."

"Fine, fine," Garak said, waving the words aside urgently with his hand, "but there was no one inside?"

"No, Elim, of course not," said Parmak, tactfully neglecting to mention the bodies inside, which were already accounted for.

Garak could not resist giving a relieved sigh, and hearing this made Bashir feel _safe_ , so he tightened his grip on Garak's hand and wiggled happily beneath his blanket.  Mirroring the smile, Parmak leaned over and rolled the blanket up higher, so it rested loosely at Bashir's clavicle.  The three of them, at least, connected _beautifully_.

"What happened next, Julian?" Garak led.

The momentary brightness faded from Bashir's features, and his brows crinkled and drew downward.  

"I can't remember," he admitted.

"It's all right," Garak repeated, while Parmak leaned in and mumbled the best deductions they managed to make about Bashir's fall.  

"...then stumbled, landed quite poorly on his right leg, hit his head on a stair as well, I believe... was trapped there several hours, until I came looking for him.  And I could hardly see nor hear him through the Filter..."

The dust was thickest in the corridor approaching the basement, and Garak had installed the mandatory air filtration system in this area so the noise would not sour the rest of the home.  And, coincidentally, so it would deter anyone from trying to go downstairs in the first place.

"I couldn't hear over it either," added Bashir.

"But you say there was a voice, my dear?" Garak asked kindly.

"I... yes, I did say that.  Kelas...?"

"Hmm?"

"I _did_ say that?"

"Yes, several times to me, not two minutes after I uncovered you."

Bashir's breathing faltered for a moment, and his grip became loose around Garak's fingers, and the tears he had stirred up finally fell.  

"I think I should go back to sleep...?" he asked, unsure of even beginning a diagnosis.  

Parmak shushed him gently.

"No, my dear, not just yet."  They turned aside, to whispered to Garak, "I want him able to hold a conversation, first, if I’m honest, or going to sleep might risk further damage.”

Bashir frowned, but nodded in concession.

"That's right," he said, having heard Parmak's reasoning.  "I'll... I'll remember soon, after that."

"Perhaps not the nature of your injury," Parmak said, "but everything else, yes; everything else will make its way back."

"It's all connected," Bashir mused, and Garak nodded to encourage him.

"Yes... you've done very well at that," Garak said.

Inactivity made Parmak uncomfortable, as it was a major source of punishment at Camp Batal.  So, they left to retrieve another packet of water, and offered to make everyone tea, leaving Garak and Bashir alone again.

"A bit of redleaf should do well for the nausea, Julian.  And do try to keep him present for me, Elim, my dear," Parmak said, leaning down to kiss the top of Garak's head.  

"With pleasure," returned Garak.

He copied Parmak's manner, kissing Bashir's forehead and feeling pleased to see him squirming, again, in playful protest of the coldness of Garak's lips.  

"You and I have endured something like this before, my dear," Garak settled into a huge, sweeping story, and spoke slowly enough for Bashir to follow along.  "There was a time you _were_ in a coma, quite a serious one, and I did all I could for you.  Not to revive you, but to help you process the aftermath, the conflicting thoughts, the unbidden feelings..."

Their hands remained together, the entire time Garak spoke.  Bashir listened intently, and interjected at points where his memory was strongest, and eagerly drank the tea when Parmak brought it back to him.  At the end of the recollective story, he said he shared a similar feeling, although he could not describe it yet in words.  Instead, Parmak keenly observed his actions, and found them satisfactory, allowing Bashir to turn over and go to sleep.

Parmak and Garak sat beside each other on the single folding chair, crammed together and overlapping each time one crossed their legs.  The screen displaying Bashir’s vitals droned on through the night at regular intervals, and while Parmak watched this, Garak watched Bashir’s facial expressions, to try to picture what he was seeing in his dreams.

“Isn’t he extraordinary?” Garak asked, sleepily.

Parmak nestled their hand gently into Garak’s hair, massaging his scalp, only further encouraging him to doze.

“You have always seemed to think so,” said Parmak, “but not without due cause, of course.”

“Yes, thank you.  I may have tried for secrecy, but it was certainly not a lie.”


End file.
